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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28677462">[untitled Ian and Poppy drabbles]</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrundletheokay/pseuds/chrundletheokay'>chrundletheokay</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mythic Quest: Raven's Banquet (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcoholism mention, Choking mention, F/M, I lowkey think Poppy might have BPD, I saw a compelling female character for once and I couldn't resist, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, References to past trauma, Trigger Warnings Listed Before Each Chapter, a couple of these are NSFW, and poorly-negotiated kink in one fic yikes, bisexual Ian, don't be like Poppy, don't look to ao3 as a moral authority, if I shipped Poppy and Ian well I simply wouldn't jk yes I do no I don't, now with fanart!, quarantine mention, ships a m/f couple but only in a queer way, so read at ur discretion or w/e</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:01:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,937</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28677462</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrundletheokay/pseuds/chrundletheokay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian-and-Poppy-centric drabbles. Featuring: a confused C.W., domestic fluff, a soft and sleepy Ian, existential-crisis-Poppy, and an irate crow.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Grimm/Poppy Li</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>[TW in the last drabble for uhhhh.... references to choking and poorly-negotiated kink.... again, it's at the end with an additional TW so it's easier to skip.]</p>
<p>[Also, TW for references to past trauma, nightmares, canon-typical alcoholism (C.W.), and COVID/quarantine/shutdown.]</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ian, this is nuts.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, it isn’t,” Ian answered confidently. He hesitated. “Is it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy’s eyebrows shot halfway up her forehead. “Uh, <em>yeah.</em> Bonkers.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the sudden squawking of the crow, which sat in a large birdcage along the edge of Ian’s desk.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I just thought… communing with the—”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The spirit of the crow — yeah, yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“Crow?</em> Is that not a raven?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy did a double-take. “No!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Because the guy told me it was a raven.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Jesus Christ. I’m telecommuting today — let David deal with bird shit on his desk.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Where is she?” C.W. demanded, gesturing at Ian with a bottle of Wild Turkey. “Your wife — where is she? I have a bone to pick.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My—? C.W., I don’t have a wife.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">C.W. gasped audibly and clutched a hand to his chest. “Good heavens! Have you gotten a divorce?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uh, like, <em>ten years ago.</em> What are you pissed at Shannon for, anyway?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">C.W. frowned. “Sharon? No, I’m talking about that small, angry woman… Poppins?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You mean <em>Poppy?”</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s the one!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Poppy’s not my wife, C.W.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Isn’t she?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Uh, <em>no,”</em> Ian answered.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">C.W. took another swig of bourbon. “If you insist.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">David peeked his head through the door to Poppy’s office, where Ian and Poppy were holed up late into the night, working on a series of bugs. “Are you guys seriously still—”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">Poppy hushed him harshly, and nodded toward Ian, who was curled up on her sofa, with his head resting on her lap and a throw pillow clutched against his chest. </span> <span class="s1">“He’s sleeping. I like him better this way.” Poppy winced. “Or hate him less, anyway.”</span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Rude,” Ian mumbled. Poppy startled and swore. “Sorry. You find the problem yet?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, you know I did,” she boasted.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian hummed contentedly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy lay sprawled out across the grass.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The pandemic was… unimaginably hard, but it had forced them to slow down. For Poppy, that was the crux of her current existential crisis. It was a pleasant summer day, so Ian made her a margarita and sent her out into his sprawling backyard, convinced that time outdoors in the sun would help.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy sat up. “This isn’t working,” she shouted across the yard.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re trying too hard,” Ian called back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I— <em>What?”</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just— Relax!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I hate you.” Poppy flopped back to the ground.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian grinned. “Love you, too!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She flipped him off.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy swore at the TV screen and jabbed at the buttons on her controller. Ian snorted. His fingers continued playing in her hair, weaving the strands together into a loose braid.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Watch out for the—!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sonofabitch,” exclaimed Poppy.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s1">“Pathetic.”</span> </em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whatever. It’s just super laggy, that’s all.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, <em>bullshit.</em> You just suck. Now give it here — it’s my turn. You got a hair tie?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do I <em>look</em> like I have a hair tie?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian cocked his head. “I… honestly have no idea. That’s why I asked.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fine. Whatever.” He dropped the braid, leaving it to unravel, and grabbed the controller.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian shut the door behind them. Poppy stood in the middle of her office, hands clenched at her sides, breathing heavily.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Poppy,” Ian said gravely. “You can’t talk to people like that. Seriously, it’s not okay.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy shook her head. She took a series of deep breaths, until the tension started to leave her body. “I think there’s something wrong with me,” she said shakily.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian furrowed his brow. “What do you—”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not crazy.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Didn’t say you were.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay, but I <em>am.</em> Like, I really think I might be,” she said desperately. “What do I—What do I do?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy sat straddled on Ian’s lap, her tongue working its way past his lips, her hands drifting ever lower.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey, Pop, just wondering, uh, where you saw this going,” he asked when she finally paused to take a breath.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh. I just assumed we were gonna fuck.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian’s brain froze for a moment. The bluntness took him aback, although it shouldn’t have. Poppy was never afraid to say exactly what was on her mind.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She cocked her head. “Sorry, is that not what’s happening?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, that’s… Yeah,” Ian stammered. “Just wanted to be sure”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We good?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” Ian breathed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My wife,” Ian repeated with gusto, as he wrapped his arms around Poppy’s waist. “I like the sound of that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I like wifeband,” she replied cheerily.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian laughed. “Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Alright. Wifeband — I can do that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You weren’t too sold on me being your wife,” she asked, almost mockingly. “Your dumb, pretty little—”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian cut her off with a kiss. “Brilliant, talented, fucking incredible, gorgeous—”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Already, with the praise kink? And <em>so early.</em> It’s indecent.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian laughed again. He decided he couldn’t be happier than he was then, standing with Poppy in their kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Make us coffee, yeah?” Poppy said.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Poppy. Poppy, wake up,” Ian said firmly in her ear. “You’re having a nightmare.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her eyes blinked open and closed several times as she awoke. “Fuck,” she muttered. She groaned and scrubbed at her face, before sitting up and looking around the room, as if searching for potential danger.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re okay, Pop. It was only a dream.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy nodded and sank back down into her pillow.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is there anything I can—”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just don’t—” she snapped. “Don’t touch me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy frowned sadly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I love you,” Ian murmured.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy nodded. She reached for his hand and wove their fingers together.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">[TW: choking / poorly-negotiated kink]</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Without a word, Poppy slowly guided Ian's hands to her throat. Ian jerked away as fast as if he’d touched a hot stove; he looked just as alarmed, just as pained as he backed away from her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, I’m not—” His breathing had grown noticeably more rapid. “I can’t.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” The rest of Poppy’s words were cut off as he enveloped her in a tight embrace.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ian, hey — look at me. It’s okay. It’s 2021. We’re in your home. You’re safe; I’m safe; everyone’s okay. Alright?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian nodded.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Poppy says "men get pegged."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>- TW for self-harm (in the first one)</p>
<p>Also:<br/>- TW for what might be interpreted as some sort of flashback / dissociative-type episode + mild bondage type stuff (in the one titled "Frozen," just under the double lines)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">ALONE</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was fucking<em> hilarious,</em> because no one noticed a thing. It was a real cosmic joke, that no one noticed when Poppy spoke, and no one noticed the lengths to which she went not to scream. She was alone in it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She hadn’t worn a single short-sleeved shirt in her entire time at MQ, and no one thought it worth mentioning. Hoodies in the summer? That was a dead giveaway! Then there was the first aid kit she kept her desk drawer, which Ian discovered while snooping and dismissed as evidence of neuroticism.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It hurt. She was just… alone.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">ANNIVERSARY</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[a bonus double-drabble!]</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Happy anniversary, Poppy,” Ian called out cheerily. He blew a kazoo and placed a red velvet cupcake on Poppy's desk.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy looked back and forth from Ian to the cupcake, utterly baffled. “What in god’s name—? I’m not married. Fuck you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No! It’s… the anniversary of when we started working together.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmmm… I don’t think it is.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Isn’t it? Ah, shit. I couldn’t really remember, to be honest? So I called up MIT to ask what day the graduation ceremony was that year, and then I tried to, like, extrapolate from there.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy had shoved the entire cupcake into her mouth by the end of his speech. “That’s just… absurd. I don’t know what day it was, either, and I don’t care. You are trying <em>way</em> too hard.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, you keep saying you feel unappreciated, so I—”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Decided to suddenly start celebrating a made-up anniversary?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian shrugged helplessly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You are <em>such</em> an arsehole. I just meant, like—Listen to me when I’m talking! Don’t ignore my contributions in staff meetings, then wait until a guy says the same exact thing and takes the credit for it—”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“What?</em> That’s ridiculous! When have I ever—”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just this morning!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian grimaced.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>“Yeah.”</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">SHIT.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You gonna be alright,” Ian asked Poppy, as they stood at the door to his guest room. “Like, can I get you anything, or—”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can I— I wanna sleep with you,” Poppy blurted out.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian’s brow furrowed. “Uh…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Platonically! <em>Shit.”</em> Poppy flapped her hands frantically. “I meant, like, totally platonically. I didn’t mean—I wasn’t talking about sex.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian laughed. “Sure, Pop. You can, like, totally platonically sleep with me.” He was definitely mocking her, echoing her words like that.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You love that, don’t you? Watching me make an arse out of myself.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian smirked. “Oh, you have no idea.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">PLATONIC SILVERWARE</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I just have one question,” Ian said, as he and Poppy stood at opposite sides of his California King-sized bed. “Are you the big spoon, or the little spoon?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His tone of voice made it clear he was joking. And although Poppy was the one to suggest platonically co-sleeping, she was suddenly filled with nervous energy. “What do you think?” she snapped. Her knee-jerk reaction: defensiveness, anger, hostility.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think you have very strong Big Spoon energy,” Ian answered sagely.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Or maybe you just have massive Little Spoon energy.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian grinned. “Nah, I go both ways. <em>Heyo!”</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">EXCEPT—</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy awoke warm, her face pressed against what was definitely another person. Half-asleep still, she searched her memory of the night before—</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">That was the faint smell of his cologne, then; the weight of his arm draped across her waist. She took a deep breath and nuzzled closer. </span> <span class="s1">That was the problem with Ian: She hated him, except when—</span></p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1"> <em>Fuck.</em> </span> <span class="s1">She loved him so much she couldn’t stand it.</span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy was considering the appeal of sleeping in when a familiar voice whispered her name, causing her to startle and swear. Ian laughed breathily.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I hate you,” she mumbled.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">TOUCH-STARVED</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy squinted blearily at Ian from across the bed. Her hair was bunched up, sticking out in places, and a crease from the pillowcase lined her cheek. Ian reached out, rubbing a thumb along the mark.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy hummed contentedly and pressed her cheek into the palm of Ian’s hand. “This is nice,” she mumbled, and let her eyes fall shut again. “Quarantine sucks. I was all, like… touch-starved, y’know? I mean, don’t get me wrong — you suck, too, but… This is nice. <em>Super weird,</em> but whatever.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s high praise indeed, Ms Li,” Ian replied.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy snorted out a laugh.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">FROZEN</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">Poppy sat straddled across his waist </span> <span class="s1">— </span> <span class="s1">silent, seemingly frozen. Her face was eerily blank.</span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey,” Ian said gently. “You okay?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her eyes darted back and forth between the soft ties binding his wrists together above his head. “I’ve never done this before,” she replied faintly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You mentioned. Do you wanna stop?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy shook her head. She watched Ian for a moment longer in silence, before slumping forward to lie draped atop him. Ian slipped his hands free and brought them down to wrap protectively around her, rubbing one hand reassuringly along back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” he murmured. “We’re gonna stop. It’s okay.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">NEUROTRANSMITTERS</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmmm. S’good,” Poppy said as she nuzzled up against Ian’s chest.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian grinned, brushing her hair back from her face. “Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">Poppy nodded and began mumbling indistinctly into Ian's skin. Eventually, he recognized the names of several neurotransmitters. </span> <span class="s1">“Hey, what are you talking about,” he asked gently.</span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy leaned back a bit to catch his eyes. “Sex. It produces all these great hormones and neurotransmitters — oxytocin, dopamine, norepinephrine—”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Real romantic, Pop,” he deadpanned.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She tucked her face into the crook of his neck and grabbed his arm, draping it back over her waist. “I do love you, though,” she murmured.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>idek what i'm writing at this point. #onlygodcanjudge</p>
<p>i just really love poppy ok. (@television writers &amp; producers: more three-dimensional female characters pls.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Two drabbles, two double drabbles, two triple drabbles, and two mini fics made up of a completely arbitrary number of words. (Not necessarily in that order.) #creativelicense #rulesare4str8ppl</p><p> </p><p>As with previous chapters, these are in a somewhat random order. They're all uh... what's the not-gay version of pre-slash? I'd say pre-het but uh, neither of these people are straight.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW:<br/>- disordered eating / fasting / diet culture bullshit<br/>- Ian's body image stuff<br/>- toxic relationship dynamics (yelling / verbal abuse)<br/>- references to past child abuse<br/>- trauma/PTSD symptoms<br/>- food talk<br/>- misogynistic language</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>SWEPT-UP</p><p> </p><p>Poppy stated the obvious: “You just picked me up.” The look on her face was inscrutable, but her tone of voice was flat and seemingly unamused.</p><p>Ian winced. “Yeah, sorry. I really should’ve asked first. Kinda got swept up in the moment there, and—” He stopped mid-sentence as Poppy shook her head. “You’re right; I’m not trying to make excuses—”</p><p>Just as he was about to assure her it would never happen again, Poppy cut him off. “Do it again,” she said.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>She took a step closer — a challenge. “You heard me.”</p><p>Ian nodded.</p><p>Poppy grinned.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">ICED</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p>Saturday meant coffee with Ian. The patio at the coffee shop bustled with the late-morning crowd.</p><p>Ian had wandered off in search of napkins — Poppy, predictably, had spilled her iced coffee. A man stopped to greet Ian near the door. Poppy watched from across the patio as Ian’s face lit up, as the stranger led Ian around to the side of the building, as he pressed Ian into the brick facade, pressed his lips to Ian’s—</p><p>Poppy tore her eyes away.</p><p>Several minutes later, Ian returned with a thick stack of napkins. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your boyfriend,” Poppy asked. “Or… partner?”</p><p>Ian scrunched his face up. “Nah. And he’s not a partner or anything. Just… a guy I hook up with sometimes.”</p><p>Poppy stared helplessly at the spilt coffee. Frozen. She wasn’t jealous. Or she was, but not because she wanted to fuck Ian herself. Honestly. It just wasn’t fair. Ian had this whole other life about which she knew nothing. Yet he knew almost everything about her, save the parts about which no one — not even Poppy herself — needed to know.</p><p>Ian wiped up the mess, and sighed. “Are you gonna be weird about this?”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">SCRATCH THE SURFACE</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy shut her mouth tight, obviously chagrined at having lost her temper yet again. She fixed her gaze on the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, it’s okay, Pop. Go ahead — keep yelling,” Ian replied, faux-cheerfully. “It’s not like I have any feelings. I’m just a… What was it you diagnosed me with again?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy leaned forward in her chair; hunched over on herself like that, she looked so small. “Narcissism,” she muttered.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian nodded in understanding. “Ah. Of course. Now, are narcissists allowed to have feelings? I always forget,” he babbled, then waved off the thought. “Doesn’t matter. Y’know what I think you should do — if you really wanna hurt me, that is?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t,” Poppy’s voice wavered.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, it’s okay. Get it all out, right? Just yell. I’m sure that’ll fix whatever’s bothering you. As far as insults go, you’ve only scratched the surface. I mean, c’mon, kid — I know you can come up with better material than that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy shook her head. “I don’t want to, though.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, you definitely do,” Ian insisted. “So here’s what I think you should do, if you really wanna hurt me… Tell me what a fuck-up I am.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell me how much you hate me. No— How much my <em>dad</em> hated me. Tell me I deserved everything I got.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shut up! What’s <em>wrong</em> with you?” shouted Poppy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You tell me.” Ian laughed, raw and painful. He swiped at the tears gathering along the corners of his eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This isn’t funny. I don’t like this.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And I don’t like when you yell at me. Because I do have feelings, and it does hurt. And I’m not saying that to be manipulative; it’s just… the truth. It <em>really fucking hurts,</em> Poppy. And you have to stop.”</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">DAD</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Mid-morning, Poppy found Ian sitting on the floor of his office, his back against the wall and his face disconcertingly blank.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What is this? What’s happening,” Poppy demanded.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian’s eyes were focused on the floor, just to the left of Poppy’s feet. “Nothing. I, um…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This doesn’t look like nothing. This looks like you’re doing a thing.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought I saw my dad this morning… At the Starbucks. It obviously wasn’t him, but for a minute there, I thought…” His voice sounded flat, like a man who’d just walked away from a horrific car accident — the shock setting in, heavy and suffocating. He wasn’t faking, wasn’t doing this for sympathy or attention. Or if he was, his acting skills had improved immensely since the last time they recorded a cut scene together.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy hated the ways in which they were alike, hated to acknowledge she bore any similarities to Ian. However, in this moment, she couldn’t deny the benefits — like understanding how it felt to run into a past she’d rather deny. Understanding that far-off look on Ian’s face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay, Ian? Look at me,” Poppy said firmly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian’s brows drew together in concentration as, at last, he forced eye contact.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It wasn’t him. Wherever you are right now? It’s over. You don’t need to live there anymore.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">These were kinds of things Poppy told herself when her mind transported her back to Australia, back to being a child, small and scared and silent. Sometimes, it even worked.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian nodded. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You see this place?” Poppy gestured around Ian’s office. “Practically a fortress. Security won’t let anyone in who’s not meant to be here. And even if they did… do you have <em>any idea</em> how many people here would stand between you and anybody who wanted to hurt you?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">MUSE</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After receiving a series of incomprehensible texts from Ian, Poppy began a search of his favorite office haunts. It didn't take long to find him in the gym, where he was lying on the floor on his back, with an arm draped over his eyes. His skin looked pale and clammy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh my god," Poppy exclaimed. "Are you alright? Should I call 911?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nah, it’s fine. No need,” Ian answered. His voice sounded… <em>odd</em> — light, cheery, and detached.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why are you on the floor,” she asked pointedly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So y’know how the muse…” Ian waved a hand weakly, then let it drop to his side. “She comes to me when I’m dizzy?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Shaking her head in dismay, Poppy fetched him a cup of water from the dispenser. “So you spun around in circles till you got dizzy and fell over?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No; I’m not a child.” Ian groaned as he sat up. He accepted the water gratefully, gulping it all down in one go. “I’ve been fasting. I just did some cardio, and boy, did I get dizzy,” he explained.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Poppy’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god! That’s so dangerous! You could’ve passed out! You could’ve hit your head!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, it’s cool. I did get a little <em>too</em> dizzy? Hence the floor. It’s way less dizzy down here. But I got down some notes, and—” He reached for his phone.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, you texted me. It’s complete rubbish. I thought you were having a stroke, or- or tripping balls or something.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian laughed. “Yeah, I wish…” There was a long pause as he stared off into the distance — some kind of side-effect of malnutrition, Poppy imagined. “Hey Pop. You wanna drop acid with me,” he asked at length.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Absolutely ridiculous,” snapped Poppy. “Get up; let’s go. We’re gonna go shove some food in your face.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I dunno." Ian rubbed at his stomach, then frowned contemplatively. “I feel like this is the best my abs have looked in a while.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, that’s probably ‘cause you’re dehydrated, stupid. Now, up. Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ian sighed. “I guess…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, I <em>know,”</em> Poppy insisted. “Your muse is a dumb bitch if she thinks this is how it’s done.”</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><p>FATHER’S DAY BRUNCH </p><p> </p><p>Poppy waited until the waitress turned and walked away, before bursting into maniacal laughter. Ian sat frozen in his seat, menu clutched in his hands. “Did she just—” he began, voice strained.</p><p>“She did! She said it was sweet of me to treat my—”</p><p>“I heard,” Ian cut her off.</p><p>“I <em>am</em> sweet, Ian, and I don’t think you give me enough credit for that. I could be having so much fun with this.”</p><p>Ian leaned across the table. “Seriously? Call me ‘dad’ one time, and I swear to god, I’m leaving. <em>After</em> running up a huge tab and sticking you with the bill.”</p><p>Poppy leaned in to match his posture. Unable to resist the urge to needle him further, she grinned and asked: “What about ‘daddy?’ ”</p><p>“Oh, <em>hell no.”</em> Ian leapt to his feet, prepared to storm off, but Poppy reached out and clasped a hand around his wrist.</p><p>“Sit,” she ordered. “I won’t make any more jokes, I swear.”</p><p>Ian looked from her face to the hand on his wrist, and relented. “Fine. But one more wiseass remark, and—”</p><p>“Ah, perfect,” Poppy exclaimed as the waitress returned. “My business partner here could use a drink.”</p><p>The waitress blanched.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">CINNAMON ROLLS</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p>When Ian finished his morning workout, he found Poppy awake at last — still dressed in her pajamas, standing in his kitchen with a large bowl. She was making cinnamon rolls, she announced.</p><p>Ian took in the floury mess she’d made of the counters and floor. “Where’s the recipe?”</p><p>Poppy tapped at her temple. “It’s possible I’ve made ‘em a few times.” She then handed over a post-it note. “Make yourself useful — run and get these ingredients from my place, will you?”</p><p><em>“Useful?</em> I’m only letting you crash at my place and eat all my food.”</p><p>Poppy scoffed. “Yeah, and now you’re letting me make us breakfast, which you have to admit is pretty sexist of you.”</p><p>“I didn’t ask! You’re just doing it,” Ian screeched. “And you know I don’t eat that shit anyway. So really, you’re just making breakfast for yourself. Which is not at all sexist. That’s just being a responsible adult.”</p><p>Poppy clearly was not listening. She stood hunched over the counter, her head cocked as she eyed the almond milk in the measuring cup before her. “Hey, you know how people say, like, ‘maybe if you got laid more, you’d be less of a bitch?’ ”</p><p>“Um, I’m not sure that’s—”</p><p>“Maybe if you ate more sugar, you’d be less of a bitch.” Poppy turned a smug smirk on Ian. “Now run and get us some powdered sugar, yeah?”</p><p>“After you’ve just called me a bitch?”</p><p>“Well, now you’re just sounding like more of a bitch, so—”</p><p>“Now who’s being sexist?” Ian protested. “That word is, like, so misogynistic!”</p><p>“Whatever.” Poppy flapped a hand in his direction, impatient and seemingly indifferent to the criticism. “Look, just go grab the stuff; be a mate.”</p><p>“Unbelievable.”</p><p>“Oh, and grab my laptop while you’re there.”</p><p>“You have like a million laptops. How am I—”</p><p>“It’s on the kitchen table, with the big Rosco sticker on it.” Poppy waved him off. With a roll of his eyes, Ian made to leave. “Wait, no. It’s…” Poppy winced. “Yeah, it’s actually on the bathroom floor right now.”</p><p>Ian blinked. <em>“Why,”</em> he asked at last. “Why is it—”</p><p>“Oh, like you don’t ever work while you’re taking a pee!”</p><p>Ian looked at her as if she’d announced plans to marry Rosco, or suggested Cold Alliance was the superior game. “No, Pop, I don’t drag my laptop into the bathroom to work while I piss. That’s so disgusting, dude. Like, you just leave it on the floor while you—? And I mean, how long is it taking to you to— Y’know what? I don’t even wanna know. I’m just gonna go get the shit.” Ian shook his head and wandered off. “Unbelievable… Just unbelievable.”</p><p class="p1"> </p><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">[12am: like a moth to a flame.]</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">she tries to hate him — she <em>does</em> hate him. but like a moth to a flame, she’s always drawn back. one day, poppy knows, she’ll fly too close and get burned, and that’s why she hates him — why she <em>has</em> to hate him. she thinks back on herself, nineteen and scared still, looking up wide-eyed at ian, imagining: <em>maybe this could be the big brother i never had.</em> she wants to slap that girl in the face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">someday, future poppy will want to punch present poppy in the gut.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">and so poppy hates ian. it’s far safer that way.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>for those who might be keeping score at home (aka me):<br/>- Swept-Up: 100<br/>- Iced: 200<br/>- Scratch the Surface: 300<br/>- Dad: 300<br/>- Muse: 365<br/>- Father's Day Brunch: 200<br/>- Cinnamon Rolls: 450<br/>- like a moth to a flame [actually written at 12am while half-asleep]: 100</p><p> </p><p>ps apologies for the gratuitous use of em-dashes. I........... am really into them right now. I cannot explain it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mythic Quest AU where everything is exactly the same, except Rob gained weight for the role like he wanted to do.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>fat ian is the new fat mac.</p>
<p>(also, i've never posted an image on here before so i have nooooo idea if this will work.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>love is stored in the big ian.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've never written a drabble before, and I don't generally enjoy reading them tbh? But I tend to be too verbose when writing, so I thought this might be good practice for me. If you're wondering what the "extra" words are about, it's because of the additional TW toward the end... but also because "C.W." is considered two words. That is simply absurd imho (in my homosexual opinion), so I only counted it as one, because fuck that.</p>
<p>PS the "wifeband" thing is inspired by Charlotte's husband referring to her as such on his instagram. :') [And yeah, there's probably some shit to unpack in that drabble, re: Poppy's internalized misogyny, her feelings about marriage, her concern that being someone's (especially Ian's) partner might affect how her male colleagues treat her... or however you choose to interpret her comments... But 100 words is 100 words.]</p>
<p>PPS don't be like Poppy :) talk to people and obtain consent before you try to get them to choke you :) :) and don't take moral guidance from fanfiction on archive of our own dot org :) this should go without saying :) :) [also, I never thought I'd write choking content??? like, I'm not even into it??? I think I've spent too much time on this website. lmao]</p>
<p>xoxo chrundletheokay</p></blockquote></div></div>
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